Eomer Dreams 3: Dreams of Visions
by LA Knight
Summary: A series of vivid dreams filled with warnings plague Eomer of Rohan. Who is the woman in his dream? Sequel to "Dreams of Violet Wings." Chapter-fic.
1. Amber Eyes

**Dreams of Amber Eyes**

He cannot escape the dreams. Always he wanders through the twilight forests, following sparkling star dust and flickers of violet silk. But now he comes to the end, the end of the path, into the clearing, and then blackness finds him, and he is alone...

There is the stench of fetid breath, the touch of coarse hair matted with blood, the hideous sight of luminous, opaque eyes, slime-ridden and sickly, and the feeling of teeth beginning to close about his throat as the weight of a great and terrible animal crushes his heart in his chest...

Eyes of pure, sweet amber. They glow in the darkness, shining orbs of cat's gold, and the dead eyes turn to the sound like a hissing cat.

The weight vanishes from his chest, and a hideous howling like a wounded beast sends chills down his spine. The stench of burning flesh and hair fills his nostril. Is this truly a dream? So real, it seems...

Gentle arms encircle him, and those amber eyes gaze up at him.

"Do not fear what may seem strange to you."

Her voice, like the midnight wind, and violet wings enfold him... and Eomer awakens.


	2. Peach Sunrise

**Dreams of Peach Sunrise**

.

The day breaks like the shattering of ice. The sky hangs heavy over Rohan, a dull dove gray full of clouds and listlessness. The snow blankets everything as the sun comes up behind thick, dark clouds.

Eomer sighs. His bones ache with cold.

As he gazes upon the cold, gray dawn, he remembers sunrises from before, less dreary and less melancholy. He remembers the dream...

In the dream, he watches the sun come up. The skies are the blue of early twilight, so soft looking he wishes he could reach out to touch the velveteen heavens. The clouds are like roses the color of a maid's first blush, like freshly plucked oranges from the South ripe with summer's kiss, like the richness of fresh, golden grain and the sweetness of spring cowslips. He has never seen such a sunrise. The sun is neither burnished gold nor blazing orange or fiery red, but a pale, vermillion kissed peach. It is beyond beautiful... but nowhere near as beautiful as the lady beside him.

Her dark curls falling over her ivory shoulders, she watches the sun come up with him. Her belly is gently rounded with child. Her dark amber gown matches the eyes that turn to him, bright with joy.

"This is a memory that has not happened yet. It is a good one. You will always remember it fondly. This day will be important, for I will be taken from you soon after. Remain ever watchful."

Only then was Eomer allowed to awaken.

Now he stands watching a colder, darker dawn. In his dream, it was summer's beginning. Here in the waking world, it is winter. He thinks fondly of the dream of amber eyes, a woman's smile, the peach sunrise.

He does not forget her warning.

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**Oo8oo8oo8oO**

I don't own LotR. This is a series of tribbles.


	3. Emerald Cloak

**Dreams of Emerald Cloaks**

**.**

Eomer stares into a mug of hot cider. He does not drink.

"Too hot, Lord Eomer?" A page assigned to serve breakfast, anxious to please. The horse lord forces a smile to his lips to ease the worried look on the boy's young face.

"It is fine, lad. I am only thinking."

To prove it, he drinks. It is sweet, crisp, sharp. It reminds him of the new dream. Every few weeks, the dreams change. And this time...

**Oo8oo8oo8oO**

He is dressed for riding, in leather armor. This is nothing military, but a pleasurable outing with his lady and the boy. Strange that he cannot remember his name... nor the lady's.

She descends the stairs, escorted by a boy-child no more than six, with golden curls held back with a black leather tie, wearing a child's version of Eomer's clothes. His eyes are emeralds. Eomer can see flecks of amber within.

But the woman... that same woman. Amber eyes, so very familiar. Her hair is caught up in an elegantly disheveled knot at the nape of her neck. Escaping curls frame her face.

He cannot see her clothes- they are shrouded by her emerald cloak, clasped with an ivory horse broach. On her finger, a golden ring with a green stone- signet ring of Rohan's Queen. But that cloak... somehow, it is important. Or is it the cloak?

The child wears a green cloak as well. Maybe this cloak is the one. But he cannot remember...

**Oo8oo8oo8oO**

"Eomer?"

His name being called startles him from his reverie. He glances up and stares at Theodred, his cousin.

"Yes?"

"The council is about to begin. Are you coming?"

Nodding, he gets to his feet and follows his cousin from the room, wondering at the significance of this new dream.

**.**

**Oo8oo8oo8oO**

I don't own LotR. This is a series of tribbles.


	4. Copper, Silver, and Bronze

**Dreams of Copper, Silver, and Bronze**

.

Freedom. He has never flown so freely in his life. Joy thrills him, his blood sings, wind whips his hair. Wind, his only adversary, tries to slow him, but he is stronger than even the summer wind.

Firefoot, a four-footed copper thunderbolt. His hooves pound the soil, his sides heave, he screams a challenge and strains to run ever faster.

Tears stream from Eomer's eyes, but he does not care. He only cares about now, this moment, this race against his most worthy opponent. For he was mistaken in thinking the wind his only enemy. He has another rival to defeat, and she is not so easily conquered as the winds of Rohan.

Over the sound of his dun stallion's thundering hooves and the trumpeting cry of challenge comes an answering scream, and the sound of hooves pounding the turf as his wife comes upon him.

Oh, but she is lovely. Her hair has escaped its knot, streaming out like a black silken banner, mingling with her horse's dark mane as she leans in, pressing her cheek against the silver stallion's neck.

Copper and silver race side by side, over the plains of Rohan. Hazel eyes meet amber, and his wife grins at him in challenge. He grins back- he cannot resist her invitation.

Then his horse trips, screaming in pain as he and his rider tumble to the ground. Eomer turns at the sound of an answering scream, seeing the silver stallion fall as well, cutting itself on the jagged rocks. But the lady of the amber eyes does not fall.

She is caught around the waist by a shrouded figure on a bronze horse, hauled up and thrown over the saddle like baggage. She struggles to escape this rider, but she cannot. Her eyes fix upon Eomer in pleading as the rider of the bronze mare gallops away, taking her with him. Somewhere far away from the accident and abduction, the boy and his older sister are screaming for their mother-

Eomer jerks awake, gasping, drenched in frigid sweat. He looks around and realizes he is inside Edoras, in his room, in his bed, safe. There is no golden-eyed lady abducted by a cloaked rider. There are no children begging for their mother not to leave them. There is only the night.

The horse lord does not fall back asleep until dawn.

.

**Oo8oo8oo8oO**

I don't own LotR. This is a series of quabble, an aberration. Comments are awesome.


	5. Golden Curls

**Dreams of Golden Curls**

.

"So you see, my lords..."

As Grima drones on and on about the friendship of Isengard- friendship that Eomer himself finds dubious and untrustworthy- the horse lord finds himself musing again over the dream. It is so strange... and so strangely terrifying. The woman... in the dream, his lady. But also in the dreams, she is the Queen... nothing about those dreams makes sense.

Drifting into his thoughts and away from the council, he begins pondering the existence of the boy and girl. He knows there is a girl, but he has never seen her, only heard her weeping. It is the boy... the boy with the golden curls... who is he?

Before his eyes, a scene unfolds. The lady, sitting on a blanket laid out over white sands, watches as a small boy splashes in the cool ocean surf, getting dunked by another child, a girl with dark hair and delicately pointed ears.

It is the boy from his dreams, his curls sopping wet as he comes up shrieking with laughter from the beneath the waves. Eomer does not recognize the girl. She is not the weeping girl. He does not know how he knows this, but he does.

Small movement from the corner of his eye. He sees guards. There are several ranged up and down the beach. Men and... two Elves. These two move like feral cats. And another man and woman... a man, plainly clothed but as noble as a king, and his lady... she looks like Eomer's own lady seated upon the blanket... but different. Not related... but the same Race... almost. Like... but not like.

"My lord Eomer?"

Grima's question jerks him from the daydream. He looks around and realizes the lords of the council are staring at him.

.

**Oo8oo8oo8oO**

Comments are awesome.


	6. White Shores

**Dreams of White Shores**

.

Warmongering, Grima calls it. Yet Eomer only defends Rohan. His men understand. But what sweet comfort can they offer? And Eowyn... she thinks only of glory. Besides, Eowyn carries her own burdens. He will not weigh her down with his.

There is no gentle companion to turn to in moments of peaceful solitude, to comfort him when he thinks, "I cannot go on." A warrior, not politician, he is frustrated, heartsick. All he can do is face his enemies head on.

Lost in melancholy, he sinks into dark daydreams and musings. If the lady of his dreams were here, and real... she would aid him. He senses that she is accustomed to politicals, court intrigue.

Then the dream that is more than a dream awakes in his mind, spreading out across his vision, beckoning.

He is on the shore of the Entwash. In a gray dress that should have made her look common, her feet buried in river mud, his lady. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders. His fingers itch to run through that mass of black curls.

"You are lonely. Eomer."

"Lonely. Not mad?" He has never spoken to her before.

"No," she murmurs. "Not mad... though I am... for loving a Man." She holds out her hand. The moment he takes it, peace. Anguish and anger no longer gnaw at his insides. "It means I give up my birthright. My brother will be unhappy."

"Why?"

"He will lose both his loves... but that is not important. We all have our destinies. You have yours. If it grows too bitter, think of me." She presses his hand to her cheek. "Now go. Slay monsters. Return safely to dream of me again."

And the dream is over. He is back on his horse, riding to another fight.


	7. Turquoise Seas

**Dreams of Turquoise Seas**

Stench of burning Orc corpses, though they are far from the battle now. Smoke stings his eyes. The Rohirrim ride through the gray haze. Melancholy rises, banished not by victory.

He feels unclean. When the men reach the shores of the Entwash, memories of dreams pulls at him. He orders a halt. He needs a respite. This will have to do.

The men take turns, stripping off their armor and plunging into the icy waters. The current tugs playfully at Eomer's legs. The water rushes over his shoulders. He ducks his head beneath the waves... and another surreal scene unfolds.

They walk side by side on the sandy shores of the sea. His lady, her hair blowing in the wind, stares out at the ocean. He merely watches her. The glittering, turquoise waves wash over her bare feet, soaking the toes of his boots.

"Why do you not search for me?" She asks after a time.

"I must protect my country," he replies. "And you... why do you not search for me?"

"Because I know where you are."

He blinks. How can she know that?

"I can see you in the waking world. I recognized you. I am with someone who needs my help, but not for much longer. Soon, I will come to you... but why should I go to the aid of one who will not stir one foot to find me? Why should I aid one who does not care for me?"

He opens his mouth to speak, to give her some excuse. He does care for her, lady of his dreams! But as he begins to speak, he is dragged beneath the sea by a great wave. When he swims to the surface, he is again in the waters of the Entwash.


	8. Sapphire Stars

**Dreams of Sapphire Stars**

Night, beneath stars, watching the night sky. He cannot forget what his lady said.

_"I know where you are..."_

If she knows, why does she not come? Why does she pull at him with dreams when he needs her so?

_"I am with someone who needs my help..."_

But it is he, Eomer, who needs her help, he who has none to soothe his aching heart.

"Do you know what those stars are?" Her voice whispers. He ought to be startled, but he is too tired, too used to being sucked into dreams.

He does not know what those stars, the ones that burn like tiny jewel chips formed of blue fire, are.

"That is Ravisoron, the Griffin. He is an ally of Men. Do you see those stars there?"

His eyes are drawn to another cluster of blue stars. He does not recognize them, either. Where did they come from?

"Those have two names in the language of my people. In your tongue, they are the Seven Raven Sisters, or the Seven Swan Brothers. The fourteen winged warriors. It depends on what Court you are from. They, also, are allied with your Race."

He does not understand.

"I know. But you will. And now for the last star, the little one poised between the Cat and the Dragon?"

This one he sees, a small violet-blue star that glimmers like a sapphire. Or is it a dozen stars all clustered together? He does not know, but that star burns his soul with recognition.

"What is that star?" He whispers softly.

"Morelinde. The Nightingale. That is me. It is also called the Swan. That is me. Remember that."

"I will," he says, though he does not quite understand. But she is gone, and he is soon asleep.


	9. Green Stones

**Dreams of Green Stones**

The Ranger, Aragorn. Accompanied by Elf and Dwarf, the strangest of companions.

But it is not the man's sword, nor his bearing, nor even his comrades that catch the horse lord's attention.

While the Eorlingas level their spears at the three travelers, Eomer's eyes are drawn to Aragorn's ring- a silver serpent biting its tail. But it is the eyes... they draw him. They are... he thinks... the green jewels called elf stones...

In his mind, the picture that begins as a tiny spark of emerald light grows and grows until it blocks out reality. The image is of Eomer himself, dressed richly as for a feast or festival. His best boots, the laces of gold. His softest doe skin breeches, a green velvet tunic trimmed in white over a cream shirt. His best riding cape.

He holds the amber eyed lady's hand. On her ring finger, he slides a delicately wrought ring of yellow gold, set with a green stone, a forest opal, and two black opals. On her index finger he slips a golden ring with a green stone etched with a white horse. He says to the crowd that has gathered all around them, the people of Rohan, "Behold, people of Rohan, your new Queen!"

The loudest of those cheering is the man called Aragorn, his Elf and Dwarf companions, Mithrandir, an older man with silver blond hair like an Elf's, and a young man with long, wild golden hair and violet eyes. In those eyes is impossible sadness, but he forces a smile to his lips and nods to Eomer before turning away.

Eomer knows then that Aragorn has something to do with the lady of the amber eyes, and that it is Aragorn who will one day bring her to him.


	10. Rose Red Lips

**Dreams of Rose-red Lips**

Betrayal.

He should have seen this. He should have known by the way Grima looks at Eowyn, like some skulking carrion-eater watching a prize piece of meat. He should have realized what it meant when his uncle's ears turned more and more towards the forked tongue of his evil councilor.

Eomer knows that all of this stemmed from Grima, and from Isengard. Even the dreadful wounding of his cousin, and the abduction of the injured prince. No one knows now where Theodred can be. Perhaps Grima has had him murdered...

And now here he is, the heir to the throne of Rohan, though a bitter honor it is, and a cruel one, and heavy. Here he is, imprisoned in the dungeons of Meduseld on his own uncle's order, to await his questioning by the Wormtongue.

What is happening to Rohan? What is happening to the King? How has everything fallen apart like this?

"The poison of Isengard," his lady says. He need not close his eyes to see her anymore, need not be dreaming. She kneels before him, eyes brimming with sorrow. "It has maimed and mutilated much more than Rohan, my lord Eomer."

"Is there no comfort, lady?"

She smiles and nods. Her slim, white hand reaches out to him, her fingertips tracing a cut on his cheekbone. The burning of it is eased, as if frost has chilled the fire.

"Oh, yes, my lord. There is hope, there is comfort. I come soon, and with me, I bring Mithrandir. Rather, he brings me."

He watches the way her lips form the words she speaks to him. He has never seen such beautiful, red lips before. He is mesmerized by them.

"Have courage, Eomer. My brother and I come to you soon, sooner than your enemies might think."

"Do you swear it?"

"Aye," she whispers, leaning close. Her nearness seems to cool the fires of rage and despair in him. "I swear it to you, my lord." And she presses those rose red lips to his, the most chaste and innocent kiss, and his spirit, his will, and his strength are renewed. He closes his eyes to savor it, this kiss he has wondered about and longed for, and when he opens his eyes again, he is alone in his cell.

Hope fills his heart when the words of her oath come back to him.


	11. Ivory Cats

**Dreams of Ivory Cats**

What is the difference between interrogation and torture? The amount of blood that is shed.

Eomer, son of Eomund, lies bleeding upon the dirt floor of his cell. He has not been given food for three days. He has not be given water for two days. He is feverish, and gravely wounded.

His only comfort is bird song. A bird- cheeping, trilling sweetly- lifts his spirits a little. He wishes that he had some crumbs to give to it.

Then he hears a small mewling, like a kitten. He turns, and squeezing through the bars of his cell is a tiny white cat with amber eyes. The back of its head and neck is black.

The little bird that tweets at him flies through the bars of his window, landing on his chest. It chirps at him worriedly. The kitten licks his face with her little pink tongue, mewing.

He stares at it, and at the bird, and wonders if he has finally gone mad.

"You know better," his lady's voice whispers. She is bending over him. Another woman, with russet hair and dark violet eyes, is beside her, her eyes scanning his body. "You know that I'd never allow you to go mad."

"Who is this?" He asks, voice slurred from fatigue and loss of blood.

"This is Cirince Fletcherson," she says. "She's a healer. She's here to take care of you."

"Are you here yet? In truth?"

"No, she is not," Cirince says, waspish. "I am. Sorry to disappoint. Help me get his shirt off, Your Highness." In seconds, the air is thick with something that feels like a brewing storm. The russet haired woman's eyes burn with violet fire. Eomer's lady presses one cool, pleasantly dry hand to Eomer's forehead. Her black curls fall around his face, and for a time, all Eomer is aware of is a vision of dark forests, and a towering structure of gleaming white stone, and the sound of children's laughter.

When all is over, he opens his eyes and realizes his wounds have been bandaged, his broken little finger splinted. The two women are vanished from his side, but the little white cat is licking one of his knuckles, blinking adoring amber eyes up at him.

He must wonder again if he is going mad as the cat curls up in his lap and begins to purr.


	12. Obsidian Blades

**Dreams of Obsidian Blades**

When he awakes from a fevered sleep, the little ivory cat is gone. Splashes of blood drip down two of the vertical bars of his cell. Something like glittering, violet silk, but softer than gossamer, stained with blood and torn, was caught on a ragged part of the bar.

He looks in the opposite direction, toward his cell window, and he sees a few discarded, russet feathers on the dirt floor. One of the window bars is missing. The bars on either side of the gap are scored, as if by an angry eagle or hawk.

Bewildered, he lets himself fall back to the floor. He feels as if he is swimming through syrup. He lets his eyes drift closed, only to be startled by the clash of swords.

Bolting to his feet, he is astounded to see the cell walls are gone. It is the Great Hall of Meduseld that he sees, and the Ranger Aragorn, and his companions from before, and Mithrandir, Gandalf the Grey. But behind them...

The young man from his dreams, the one with violet eyes like summer twilight. He wields a sword made of something like iron but not, something that rings like silver and sings like heaven. And the lady...

His lady, with her amber eyes burning like the molten blood of the sun, is fighting Grima's men, ducking and dodging, cutting with two sharp blades of black stone, hamstringing them, cutting tendons and laying them out on the floor. After a moment, they are down but not dead. She sheathes the knives and turns to Gandalf, eyes questioning. He nods to her, and she rushes from the Hall down a corridor.

Eomer is jerked from the dream by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall outside his cell.


	13. Reality

**Dreams of Reality**

She runs down the corridor, halting before the cell door. For a minute, Eomer thinks he is seeing a great, black and white butterfly with violet wings, but when he blinks, rubbing his eyes, and looks again, she is the lady from his dreams, with her amber eyes and hair like the night. In a white shirt and mist gray tunic and trousers, she approaches. The only color to her is the rose blush of her cheeks, the redness of her lips, and the golden hue of her gaze.

Reaching out one hand, she slips it through the bars.

He lifts up his own hand to her, and their fingers touch. Her slim, white hand slides into his, and his warm, golden, callused fingers curl around hers.

He sighs, feeling something in him shift, reach out to her. Slipping her other hand through the bars, she smiles, and touches his face gently.

"You are Eomer, son of Eomund. Third Marshall of the Riddermark."

Her voice, like in his dreams, is musical and beautiful. His heart leaps in his chest at finally hearing it in the waking world. She smiles at him again.

"Aye. That I am," he says softly. "And you... Swan. Nightingale. Morelinde."

"Aye. That is my family's name for me. My true name is Mornie Nimlothel, Lothiriel's Heir, the Night Princess. I am sister to Anarmacil, the Golden Prince." Her voice is solemn. But then she smiles, her cheeks dimpling. Her eyes gleam as she says, "But you can call me Lindie."

"Lindie... yes."

Pulling out a thin strip of metal, she picks the lock on his cell, and flings the door open. She offers him her hand again.

When he takes it, she pulls him to his feet and leads him to his freedom.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Well, they've finally met. This story is at its end. It will be continued in another story


End file.
